Casting off his self-pity, he inched for the side of the bed. Every movement a seeming tidal wave of nausea. He wasn’t going to vomit. He would not tolerate that indignity. A man such as himself could hold his opium and liquor. He would not prove himself to be a total infant.
Even so, by the time he had managed to push himself upright and swing his legs over the bed, the sweat that had simply been light upon his brow now trickled down his back. He panted. Each breath an ordeal necessary to keep the world from spinning and his rebellious stomach in check.
He blinked several times, then surveyed his room. Unlike himself, everything else appeared to be in order. The dark shadows resembled his chairs and tables, except one of the chairs seemed to be moving ever so slightly.
More proof he was standing at madness’s door?
But the shadow proceeded to speak, the rustle of fabric accompanying the musical voice. “Ah. And it’s glad I am to see you’re awake.”
He grimaced. A sense of unfamiliar humiliation mixed with his already unpleasant feelings of incapacitation. “Unless I am sleep walking, one would think my wakefulness was quite obvious and did not bear the need for observation.”
She shifted on the chair, her voluminous skirts spilling about her like impenetrable, deep, black waters. “Well, ’tis clear to say your tart hasn’t entirely abandoned you, weak lamb that you are, but I had hoped you’d sleep longer.”
He gagged on a hint of vomit, longing to put her quickly in her place for asserting that he belonged with the sheep. Instead he mumbled, “My disobliging nature is simply one of my traits you will have to accustom yourself to, Viscountess.”
She shrugged. “And didn’t I always know you’d be difficult?”
Was she teasing him? Did the woman have that gall? He considered. Yes. Margaret Cassidy . . . No, Lady Stanhope, Viscountess of Powers in all purposes but one as of yet, most definitely had the gall to tease. Something he found himself liking for some irrational and most irritating reason. “Hmm. Glad to meet your expectations.”
She didn’t smile or grin. Instead, her face eased into a sympathetic but knowing mask. “Oh, my lord, I should imagine you shall exceed them.”
Despite his internal struggle, it truly hit him then that she was his wife and calling him “my lord.” Long ago, he had made a vow that no one would ever call him by his name but his wife, the wife he had so utterly failed, and now he found himself in another perplexing situation. One to add to a multitude. This was the moment. Dare he venture out and suggest she call him anything but his title?
He couldn’t give his name. Not yet. It was the only way he had of honoring the woman who had died so many years ago now, a victim of society’s hammerlike command that she be a woman of perfection in every way.
Wincing at the sudden and painful memory of his thin wife, in her beautiful gown, pushing away her plate and offering him a gentle smile, he considered. Was his honoring of his long-deceased wife taking the wrong form?
He tried to force his name from his lips, but the word simply wouldn’t form. His name was still Sophia’s. “I suppose you may call me ‘husband’ as well as ‘my lord.’”
She leaned forward, her face coming into the slightly less shadowy light. “How gracious. Since that is what you are.”
God, she was beautiful. That skin . . . so cool, so unblemished, and her eyes were eyes that threatened to penetrate every barrier he had erected and not retreat in disgust and fear as everyone else had done. “On a piece of paper.”
She arched that damned, delightful red brow. “That paper carries considerable weight. It binds us together quite nicely until one of us shuffles off our mortal coil.”
He hmphed. His usual energy for argument was leached by all his powers to keep himself sitting upright.
She crossed the short distance between them and lowered herself so that she crouched, a most unladylike position. “I have a surprise for you.”
“More morphine?” he quipped, though his voice didn’t hold its usual disdain. “That was quite a surprise.”
She sighed and stood, her black gown whooshing. With a decisive motion, she tugged on the bellpull.
Was she still wearing the same gown as at their wedding? Had she sat by his side this entire time without taking the time to change?
“No more morphine,” she said flatly. “None at all.”
Fear and relief spiraled through him. He wanted to be done with it. Forever. He had to be. The episode at the cathedral was full proof that he had crossed a line in which he could no longer return from if he used opium again. He would be lost on a sea of death.
It mattered not that somewhere in the background of his troubled mind he was aware of a pattern growing within him. A patter of abstinence and then abandonment. While he had every intention of abstaining, he was not sure that the darkness would not seduce him. It was a frightening reality that he could lie to himself with such ease. “Very wise.”
She arched a brow, pained foreknowledge turning her blue eyes almost black. “So you think now, but the best course in such cases is to be slowly taken off such things.”
“No,” he countered, mustering as much noblesse oblige as he could render from his burning body. “One should rip bandages off and end the agony.”
She eyed him slowly, no doubt taking in his weakened state. “The agony has yet to begin.”
He scowled, reaching for his cool mantle of aloof superiority. He hated that she could see him like this. No one, certainly not she, should see him thus. It was almost more than he could bear. “That sounds particularly ominous.”
“’Twas meant to.”
“And my surprise?” He sighed, wishing to climb back under the covers and hibernate. Surely she could bring him his much-needed water, glorified nursemaid that she was, then hie off to discover her recently bargained for house. “Is it more of this stimulating and foreboding conversation? If so, you may keep it.”
Her lips twisted into a bemused smile. “Lovely as it is to know my conversation stimulates you, I must disappoint.”
Stimulate? Did the bleeding girl have any idea as to the entendre she just uttered? It certainly seemed not, given the coolness of her cheek. He didn’t know what to make of her. An innocent in charge of madmen, dealing with his father to receive her best settlement? And then she had to go and say words like “stimulate,” which even in his condition brought forth that erotic image again of her on the floor, this time on top of his burgundy carpet, the color of her hair a strange contrast with it and her pale legs spread as he studied her pussy with reverent desire.
“My lord?”
“Hm?” Yes. It was a remarkable image, how he would pleasure her, this woman who had clearly known no pleasing touch from a man. He would drive her to the brink. That’s all he wanted after all, to see her unfold before him, and then he would let her go.
“Are you gathering wool, my lord?”
He blinked, forcing the searing image from his mind. “What?”
She propped her hands on her hips and gave him a wry grin. “Your surprise. ’Tis a bath.”
The very idea of pulling himself out of bed, crossing the room to his dressing chamber, and immersing himself in steaming liquid was a most unappealing proposition. He’d much rather stay in bed and dream about her. His dark angel. And how he was going to corrupt her in slow degrees. But from the damn-and-blast determination etched in her stance, she was not to be gainsaid.
Still, he hated her seeing him in this less-than-authoritative state.
He didn’t quite have it within him to call upon the footmen to assist him. Reliance upon his fellow men, servants or no, was not something he wished to contemplate. “I am already too hot.”
“I am aware.” She leaned toward him and slowly stretched out her fingers as she carefully cupped his chin. Urgency brightened her eyes as she oh so painfully turned his face
slowly to the right and then to the left. “Soon you will begin to shake more than you are doing at present. It goes rapidly downhill from there.”
It was upon his tongue, a stinging reply, and yet he couldn’t administer it, not with her gentle yet firm fingers upon his heated flesh. Now if he could just get her to lay that cool hand on his brow. “I hardly doubt it shall grow much worse. I simply have a fever. Feel.”
She trailed her fingers a little too slowly, then snapped her back straight. “I don’t have to feel. I know. And it will grow much, much worse, I am sorry to say.”
He snorted his disbelief. He might be trembling ever so slightly, but he wouldn’t worsen. Men such as he recovered quickly from their indiscretions. Though he couldn’t recall the last time he had gone a full day without laudanum to help him sleep.
She narrowed her eyes. “You will take a bath.”
“I thought you were my wife, not my governess.” Though he was most curious as to how far she would attempt to push him, how much authority she actually felt she had over him.
“I am primarily your nurse.” Her cheeks colored imperceptibly, as if she were contemplating her role as his wife and the dangers that might possibly entail. “And you already know my purpose here. Stop resisting and give in.”
He couldn’t help teasing her. It was all too rewarding. Possibly the only thing that was at this time. “My dear woman, didn’t you know resistance is half the fun?”
“Only to men.”
He managed to refrain from saying anything truly indecorous, though he doubted it was out of any delicacy but rather out of tiredness and a slowly growing state of dimness in his head. But one thing he was certain of: he had other plans to unnerve her. Uncouth words were simply too easy, and he’d never chosen easy.
Sensing his defeat by proxy, she offered cheerfully, “Now, would you be liking my assistance in standing?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffed. He was not an invalid.
She remained silent, folding her hands before her, a movement he was growing to recognize as her fallback pose. A pose which she assumed when things weren’t quite going her way. She was most likely considering her next-best attack in that oh so serene stance. Well, despite his earlier misgivings, he would prove her unnecessary. A miscalculation of his father’s, and he’d hie her off to whatever estate she’d no doubt got out of this arranged marriage.
Moments of doubt aside, he could and would prove himself capable.
Scooting toward the edge of the bed, he ignored the nausea, which had dissipated under their distracting dialogue and now proceeded with full force to roll through him. Just as he drew in a steadying breath, his vision grew spotty. He blinked against it, gripped the mattress, and in one concerted effort, shoved himself to the very edge and placed his feet down.
“Are you all right, then?”
He snapped her a most irritated look. Christ, he was concentrating, and he didn’t need her baaaing at him. He gave a curt nod. Straightening his arms, he launched himself up. His entire body swung. The air whooshed around him, and his brain seemed to plummet to his feet.
“My lord? My lord!”
He caught himself somehow and swayed on his bare feet, his toes gripping the fibers of the plush rug. After finding his footing, he noticed with dismay his nightshirt hanging about his knees. He gazed down at the linen despondently. “Hate nightshirts.”
“’Twas the only thing your man had to put on you.” She frowned, her gaze sliding up and down the material skimming his body. Those remarkable and sin-inspiring eyes widened and then widened some more. “What is it you usually wear?”
He gave a rough laugh and stared at her.
She flushed.
She was so easy to rile. Even in his state.
Brushing off her agitation with a quick bustle of motion toward him, her hand outstretched, she said, “You’re certain you need no help.”
He blew out a derisive sound, which he immediately regretted, beginning to think silence was really the only reasonable course he could take to ease the aching in his head and general state of disorder in his body. “I laugh in the face of assistance.”
That irritating red brow shot up and her lips, glorious pink and full, pursed. “Just don’t be letting assistance have the last laugh, if you get my meaning.”
“Wouldn’t . . . d-dream of it.” It was tempting to stop discourse altogether and focus only on her mouth. What he intended to do with it. How he would seduce it carefully with soft kisses, the touch of his tongue, and words, beautiful words and filthy words all meant to shock and accentuate the pleasure he would give her. And there were other things she could do with that mouth, just as he would use his mouth upon her.
He studied her face, the part of her which was the most stunning, and attempted to hide his curiosity. She was most peculiar. Though getting her to flush was fairly easy, she was not cowed by him. Couldn’t be, he supposed. Not in her line of work. Dealing with mouth frothers day in and day out. It seemed hard-pressed to believe money was enough motivation to live her life thusly. “W-why . . . ? Why are you . . . helping me?”
Where the hell had his sense of articulation gone? Yes. It was happening again. His mouth was disobeying him in a most disturbing way.
“Catholics like suffering. Isn’t it the path to heaven, by God? Now, just take it slow.”
He bristled and felt one roiling mass of emotion. “Must you”—he girded up his tongue and forced himself to say carefully—“be so damned annoying?”
“Indeed, I must.”
He nodded, wondering why he’d bothered to ask. “Of course you must.”
“It’s what I’m paid for.”
“No wage . . . could be enough. Besides . . . you don’t earn a wage. You’re . . . my . . . God . . . I don’t really want to say it—”
“Wife. I know. I’d say that was a bit of a disadvantage and not a bonus.”
“Would you?”
“Mm. Now, shuffle on to your bath. By now, the water’s been poured, water I’ve had on the boil just waiting for your cheerful rise. ’Twill get cold, and I’ll not have you wailing—”
“Wailing, madam?”
“Like an infant,” she said emphatically.
He opened his mouth, ready to set her down, but then his brain seemed to spasm and he was quite concerned that whatever he would say would come out as utter shite. And that was something he wouldn’t have. Settling instead for a withering look, he turned from her and focused on the tall mahogany door at the end of his room, which was cracked open.
He could make it.
With Herculean effort, he lifted his foot from the floor and dragged—dragged—it forward. He was one of the strongest men he knew; he ensured it with a daily fitness regimen. One would never know it based upon the effort with which he took that step.
“Only about twenty or so more to go,” she prodded.
He snapped her a disgusted look, which then sent a pressure booming through his head, and his legs started to shake. “Your . . . silence would be m-most appreciated.”
“I’m sure it would. Most men like their women silent, but alas, I am of the uncooperative sort.”
He hmmphed and took another step forward. If he could only just make a strong go of it.
“That’s it,” she purred. “Fast as a racehorse, you are.”
Was this some sort of reverse motivation? If she drove him mad with her yammering, he’d finally ask for assistance? Well, she could talk herself blue. Swallowing back hard, he focused on the door, gathered up the strength that had got him through years, and strode forward.
He ignored the shaking of his legs, the hammering of his heart, and the sensation that he was about to collapse through air at any moment. All that mattered was he prove her wrong. He didn’t need help. Viscount Powers, no matter how tempted, would never need help.
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br /> Chapter 10
“All right,” she acceded. “You’ve made it to the bath. I’ll give you that.”
The look those piercing eyes gave her sent shivers down her spine. It was a look to say, I will never fail, woman.
Margaret folded her arms just under her breasts and felt a grudging respect for the man who was no doubt going to make her life hell for the next months while she attempted to save him from himself. That very arrogance was going to be his worst enemy. “I’ll call your man in, then.”
Strain tensed his features, which on most men would have weakened the beauty of his visage, but not Powers. Instead the furrowed plains of his forehead and jawline only emphasized the sharp ruggedness of his masculinity. “Not. Necessary.”
She sniffed, eyeing him like a mad goat about to charge. The longer he went without opium, the more unreliable he would be . . . at least for a day or two. “You’re not bathin’ on your own. I can tell you that now, me lad.”
“Lad?”
She ignored him and planted her hands on her hips. “I’ll not have you drowning.”
“Early release from marriage,” he offered, though his considerable deadpan was diminished by the fever in his cold stare.
“And certain death by your father.”
He nodded. “Tricky.”
She sighed and headed for the bellpull beside the door. Just as she was about to reach for it, his hand darted out with shocking speed and slipped around her wrist, his thumb gently pressing against her throbbing veins. “You bathe me.”
Her entire body froze under that touch. No. Not froze. Enveloped in flame, that’s what her traitorous flesh did. She hadn’t even realized her blood had been pumping ferociously at their interaction. And with this one touch, he was strapped to that bed again. They were kissing, her entire world melting away as he’d shown her that the body was meant for something she never known or given credence to. Pleasure. Unmitigated, soul-stealing pleasure. “’Tis not my place.”
“You’re my nurse,” he countered softly, his gaze seeking hers with a seductive determination.
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